


Trail of Dust

by maps



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Pixie Louis, Pixies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-26
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/818699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maps/pseuds/maps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Harry's past is darker than others, but his future is looking brighter by the second. But that might just be the pixie dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trail of Dust

Harry's bedroom window’s cracked open and the rain rattles the wind chimes outside. It sounds sad, this early in the morning, like some whimsical weeping. The rain drops patter on the back patio and cling to his window, trapped behind the glass. He listens to it, the rain, the wind chimes, and he's mesmerized. Harry watches this Sunday morning drown, and is glad that he's inside, dry and safe.

He hears a tinkling noise, through the downpour, and thinks maybe that’s what sounds so heartbreaking, like bird chirping only more metallic. He moves to his window seat to hear it more clearly, dragging his stained down comforter with him. It makes Harry kind of hopeful for some reason. Like maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem. He rubs away the phantom sting on his wrists and tries to convince himself that he's happy.

Eventually the lull of the rain isn't enough to entrance him, and he trudges slowly down the hall with hot tea on his mind. He realizes how lonely his house is during the days, especially since--what his mother calls--his "accident." It's of dull gray light and white noise. There’s a chill to it in the mornings, like it doesn’t want to wake up either. The kitchen is the worst, with it’s big windows and hand-laid tile floors. It’s not a place for morning people or early risers, despite what its breakfast appliances might hint towards. It’s not a place for uncovered skin, either. The winter cold seeps in through the thin windows and cools the floor, taunting Harry's bare toes. He scrunches them under his feet, hoping to warm them at least a little. He puts the kettle on, pulling his blanket tighter around him, and hears it again, the tinkling. It’s louder now. He stares out blankly past the blurry rivers flowing down the windows, wondering where it’s coming from. Or what it is.

Dave pads up and rubs against Harry's blanket-wrapped legs. His little feet are quiet, sweet. He jumps onto the counter, mews against one of Harry's hand, the other doesn’t want to risk the cold outside the blanket yet. Harry's mom once told him that they act alike, Harry and his cat. Because you boys spend so much time together, she'd said. Harry kind of has to agree. They share their favorite sleeping spots, like the couch in the study that they’ve indented over the recent months or by the heat vents on the hardwood floors of Harry's bedroom. They’re both very quiet too, Harry and Dave. Harry thinks Dave enjoys his silence, and he enjoys falling asleep to Dave's purrs. They both hate being in the rain, but love watching it on days like this: dreary, cold Sundays when we have nothing better to do. He even has green eyes, like me, Harry thinks looking into Dave's small, furry face.

Harry used to tell people that he was his long lost brother. Maybe it was because of their matching eyes, but after a while he started to believe it, too. It was kind of like a fairytale. Harry knew it was just a story he told people, but somewhere along the way, deep down, he wanted it to be true. That’s how kids are, though. They choose what they believe. Adults don’t know how. Harry thinks he can still choose, maybe.

One of the French doors cracks open by a gust of wind. Harry assumes his mom must not have shut it completely from when she watered her flowers yesterday because, oddly, it hadn’t rained.

The tinkling, Harry realizes, is coming from outside. Dave heard it this time, too, his ears attentive and pupils big and round. Harry can’t really say why he wants to know what that noise is so badly. Maybe it’s some innate human instinct to want to discover, explore. At least he's curious about something; he hasn't had much want to do anything in a while. Since The Accident, he hasn't been to school either. His mom thought it better to withdraw him for a few weeks, but those weeks have turned to months and now it's Winter Break already. Dave eyes Harry apprehensively when he walk to the door and shrugs the blanket off his shoulders. Standing there in a white v-neck and pajama pants low on his hips, Harry stares at the open door...debating. His arms already regret dropping the blanket, skin raised like hackles. Dave weaves between his legs and mews at the glass door, as if in warning. When Harry opens the door, though, the rain sends Dave running to cower under the table. He’s not as curious as me, Harry thinks, smiling at the irony.

It only takes a few moments before his t-shirt is clinging to Harry's goose bumped skin; he's shivering within seconds of stepping outside. He doesn't know how other people do it, how they actually enjoy this kind of weather. It’s depressing, and he has enough of that in his life, thank you very much.

His mom’s flowers look like they were once trying to escape the rising water in their pots, but have long since given up. Drooping, wilted, but bright against the backdrop of gray and dull green. Their leaves shake and stutter under the falling droplets, and Harry feels just as damaged as they look. He wonders how he looks from Dave’s perspective, flinching under each drop. Harry can see his tiny mouth open as he meows, his baby front teeth showing. His little kitty toes are flattened out on the glass. Harry imagines he’s asking him to come back inside, to come cuddle. Harry wants to tell him that he needs to find the source of the tinkling noise first, but he’s just a cat. Harry just forgets that sometimes. Maybe it's because he spends too much time with his pet.

Harry steps off the patio, onto soggy grass. The hems of his pajamas are already heavy with mud and he's not even halfway to the garden yet. He doesn't know why, but he has a feeling he'll find what he's looking for there, amidst the overflowing birdbaths and hectic weeds. Natures Chaos, his mom calls it. Her own personal sanctuary. Like Harry's music is for him, her gardening is how she relates herself to something else. Harry has Dave and his violin and she has her plants and fresh air.

Finally, he sees it, what he's been looking for, just a few steps down the garden’s path: the source of the singsong tinks. He really doesn't know what to think. He remembers back to every childhood bedtime story, every fairytale, and reconsiders them. Revisits the possibility that they’re all actually true, a notion he'd abandoned long ago. Harry feels like a kid again, free from the troubles of the real world, from all its darkness, when he see his little golden frame.

He’s sitting, hunched over under the protection of a fern, no bigger than a pine cone. There’s a glow to him that Harry can’t draw his eyes away from. It’s faint, but bright enough for him to look out of place in comparison to everything else. Harry thinks he might be crying. He reminds Harry of one of his mom's flowers; drooping, sad, and drowned out. That’s why the tinkling sounded so full of melancholy through the rain, Harry guesses. He wonders what it sounds like happy, and realize he hopes he'll be around to hear it.

Harry squats a couple feet away. The little fairy hears him clear his throat and jolts up in a cloud of pixie dust. He’s scared, eyes wide and rimmed with tears. He tinks once, looks left and right, then dives behind the fern’s base, to hide. Harry feels a bit offended he’s so scared, right off the bat. He doesn't want to be someone who’s unapproachable like that. Is he unapproachable?

The ground sparkles beneath him as his shivers send more pixie dust onto the dirt. He can’t tell if he’s just cold or if he’s really that scared. Harry crouches a bit closer and smiles his biggest, dimples smile that he can through chattering teeth.

“Hey, there,” he says softly. “What are you doing out here all alone in the rain?”

He bites his quavering lip, looking all around, probably still planning his escape. His cheekbones are sharp, angular, and his button nose sits just where it should. His hair looks softer than silk and shines lightly, pulsating with what Harry guesses to be his tiny heartbeat. When Harry was younger, he always imagined fairies to be brighter. He wonders if the fairytales he was told as a child left out such vital information, like whether or not pixies are warm or cold blooded. Like, this could be life or death for the little guy!

He reaches his hand out, inviting. “You look cold. If you want, I can bring you inside and dry your clothes for you?” Harry says, taking note of the pixie's powder blue tee shirt too wet and baggy to hug his tiny frame, and there’s mud on the back of his white trousers. He looks like he’s considering what Harry's said, and, taking a tentative step forward, it seems he’s allowing himself to trust him. Harry smiles at him; he can’t believe this is happening, or how beautiful he is.

He takes another step, still eyeing Harry.

“There you go,” Harry says, trying to encourage him. “You like hot chocolate? I can make us some, if you’d like?”

He stops just under the fern’s overhang. Harry thinks he’s too scared to venture out in the rain again. Weirdly enough, Harry had kind of forgotten it was raining at all. Harry's normally wavy hair is weighed down, ends in pointed tips holding drops of water like bombs ready to fall in a splash. His t-shirt is just as baggy and deformed as the pixie's, and he can’t feel his toes. He wonders how _he_ feels, with every drop equivalent to a bucketful of water to him. He nods in a small way, rubbing warmth into his arms. How did he get here, how long has he been waiting, and why here, in my back yard? Harry thinks.

Harry's nose tingles and he barely has time to turn his head before he sneezes. Thankfully is wasn't on him. Harry's sure that would've be more than enough force to propel his featherlike frame out of the garden completely.

“Excuse me.” Harry clears his throat.

He looks up at Harry, frozen. Maybe he’d never heard a human sneeze before? He just stares and Harry gets self-conscious, thinking he has a booger hanging from his nose or something. Then the pixie just giggles a tinkling laugh, and hops into Harry's outstretched hand, landing gracefully only to fall back on his bum and hug his knees to his chest. The sound makes Harry feel light inside. He wonders if that’s his magic dust on his skin, or just his presence.

He weighs about the same as an iPhone, and is probably around the same height. So small, he wipes his nose with the back of his hand, sniffling. His blue eyes are bright and puffy from crying. He watches Harry, curiosity painting his expression.

Harry makes a roof for him with his other hand, careful not to move too fast. Harry holds his hands against his chest so the little guy doesn’t get motion sickness or pelted with raindrops. But Harry guesses since he flies that that's probably not a threatening problem for him.

Harry opens his hands enough to see him. His eyes slowly open, a small smile rests on his lips. Harry's hands are probably the warmest thing he’s felt all morning. He's glad he helped to put that tiny smile there, stretched over his lips.

“Oh! How rude of me, I haven’t properly introduced myself.” Harry peers down at him. “I’m Harry. What’s your name?”

His eyes widen again. He sucks in a deep breath, then dives into the palm of Harry's hand, covering his head with his arms. He shakes his head and little gusts of his golden dust fall to Harry's hand. He feels light inside again.

“Okay, okay. You don’t have to tell me yet if you don’t want to.” It feels like Harry can tell him anything. Maybe he feels so comfortable because he knows he won’t respond in the way Harry's used to. Maybe it’ll mean he’ll really listen. In the way, Dave listens. Except the pixie boy Harry's holding can actually understand. That makes all the difference.

“Just wait ‘till you meet Dave. You’ll love him.”

Maybe Harry can be happy. Maybe it doesn’t have to be such a chore for him to smile anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> I just edited this, but I may update if i ever have time again. if i do i may add in other characters, i.e. band members and such, but idk right now


End file.
